Trust
by thesafestpsycoticbitch
Summary: It is in the darkest places that some lights shine the brightest. Slow burn; later Barsad/OC.
1. Prologue

**PART 1**

_Tunisia_

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"_You can't trust water: Even a straight stick turns crooked in it._" W. C. Fields

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_Prologue._

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It was two in two in the morning, when the darkness almost appropriated the pale moonlight, that the door was brutally bashed. The girl awoke instinctively just as her mother was already running down the stars.

By the time the girl came down, her mother had opened the door and made a little boy came in.

The fifteen-years-old girl sat on the last step and looked her mother taking care of the stranger. She gave him something to cover himself, ran make some water boil and inspected him.

"Make the tea", she ordered once the kettle whistled, without looking over her shoulder.

The girl silently got up, walked to the kitchen, and opened the cupboard to find some decent cups.

The boy did not look up the whole time. The girl was intrigued. Usually, when strangers knocked on their door and mom helped them, they took the opportunity to tell her their life problems. Sometimes they even cried.

But not the boy. The boy didn't talk, didn't cry. He was as calm as sleeping water. It was almost like he didn't felt anything.

When at one moment her mother excited the room to get some medications, the girl brought the tea in. She handed it over to him, who took it greedily.

"Careful with it — it's hot, boy." the girl said.

Blue eyes pitched in brown ones.

"I am no boy. I'm a girl."

_A word, finally._

The other girl decided to push her luck and asked gently:

"Then who are you, girl?"

The blue eyes examined so deeply her own that she felt obligate to say more.

"I'm Alana, if that makes you feel more comfortable. And that was my mother, Miranda. She is… a doctor. The only one of the village."

"But you're not from here — I can tell by your accent." The voice was low and controlee.

"No. We're from America." She discreetly grinned.

"Why would Americans be _here_?"

The older girl lost the smile and tilted the head at the bitter tone.

"What's your name?" She asked.

"Talia."

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Three days later, Talia tries to run away.

Miranda made doctor studies while she was still in America, and came in Tunisia to practice. And now, they lived in a small poor village there, in a modest house, and basically helped everyone in that village, on every subject. She cultivated her own vegetables and plants, and made her own herbal infusions with it.

And so Alana was up late, taking care of the garden, and saw the girl sneaking out of the house, carefully closing the door. Talia slept the first whole day. The second, she ate like she hadn't in a week, and the third she helped at the house.

_Why would she go?_

"Hey!"

Talia turned around. Her eyes screamed her fear and her want to run away, but she stayed paralyzed. Alana slowly walked to her, hands up.

"Don't run off, please."

By the time she got to her, Talia didn't move. Alana finally let down her hands.

"Were you leaving?"

No guilt flashed through her eyes, not even shame.

"Thank you for everything you did for me, but I need to go."

She turned back, ready to flee, but Alana wouldn't want to let go — she stepped forward.

"And where would you go? You haven't told us a single thing about you, Talia. You didn't say what happened to you, why you were so scared. You didn't say if you had any family, any home. Talia — you're thirteen. The road's dangerous, here. You won't make it one mile."

"Look, I appreciate your concern. But I _really_ have to go."

"What is so important that you can't wait for the day light!?" Alana finally screamed.

Talia stopped. Her shoulders shook, and as she turned, her eyes were bright, as she would have broken down. But she did not, just as the first day. She took a deep breath, and one second to regain her inexpressive face. _Calm as sleeping water._

Yet, her eyes still had kept a glimmer. A tired glimmer, like she resigned to let something inside of her go, something long kept buried.

"When my father had fallen in love with my mother, who was the daughter of a war lord, this one sent him in prison for life. My mom took his place. She was pregnant. I was born in that prison. One day, there was a rebellion and my mom was killed. Another burst out, a few days ago. And I escaped. I _need_ to find my father."

Alana licked her lips, than looked away. When she pitched her eyes into Talia's, they had determination in it, and something she couldn't quite place.

"What do you need?"

Talia's mouth opened in surprise. Alana's eyes wandering on the landscape again. She signed.

"I can understand the need to find a father. And, uh — well, you don't look like you are going to give up on this. The least I can do is to prepare your trip. So, what do you need?"

"I, uh — provisions, I think. Uh, a cover, maybe."

"I'll get you the cover; take as much food you need in the garden."

Alana turned to walk away; a small voice stopped her.

"Thank you."

For a moment, Talia looked like a thirteen-years-old girl again, a scared and tiny child. And so Alana gave her a soften smile — like a fifteen-years-old big sister.

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And so Talia left that night, and so Alana watched her leave.

The night was as dark as when she first entered into Alana's life. This one looked for one moment at the stars. She inhaled the night's breeze and finally looked down.

Talia was no longer here. The darkness had enwrapped the little girl and left nothing but a shadow among others.

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Things got boring again after Talia's leaving. It was the same routine anew; Alana took care of the garden, while she was educated and taught medicine by her mother, who treated the sick persons who filled the house. And sometimes, Alana took care of them. Indeed, her mother allowed her to treat them more and more often.

"I am making you self-governing, sweetheart." Miranda said.

And then she smiled of Alana's favorite smile, the one that made her eyes shine.

"Why?" Alana asked, but her mother only kept smiling. Her eyes seemed to want to express something, but Alana didn't understand on the moment.

For almost four weeks, the patients kept coming in and out of the house, strangers and wanderers, telling them their life story, as soon said as forgotten. Miranda didn't ask about Talia. Alana thought she assumed she left one night, and if she suspected Alana of anything, she didn't say.

And Miranda was out, the day Talia returned — and she wasn't alone.

Alana dropped all of the things she had in hands at the sight of a dirty breathless Talia. "Wha— what are you doing here?"

"I need some help."

Two men walked into the room; the second carrying a third one in his arms, he thrown him on the table. Their faces was red, they all looked exhausted, like they've been running for a hundred miles. Alana forced her attention to get back to Talia and noticed her shaking _bloody_ hands.

"What the _Hell_ happened? Where were you—"

"Later", she cut off. "You need to help Bane first."

Alana didn't think twice, she jerked the last things off the table and inspected the barely breathing sixteen-looking-boy. He was half conscious, mumbling delirious things. _Fever_, she noted. With trembling hands she pushed aside the bands of the bandage.

_Calm down. You can do it, Alana, just— just calm down._

She gasped at the sight of the horrible mutilated face.

"What have they done to you?" she whispered.

"Alana." Talia urgently spoke "Can you— can you do something?"

_No_, she thought. "Yes. But not much; the damages have already been done. It's..."

She trailed off, left the sinister unfinished word in suspend. She started to work; she poured alcohol on the wounds — which made Bane hiss and Talia gasp and Alana say: "Talia, if you can't handle it, get out, because it'll become worse in a second." And it did. As soon as Alana started to squeeze the sore, Bane's screech had nothing human anymore.

But she kept pressing. _And jeez, she even wondered who was hurting the more, him or Talia._ Then she reopened some wounds, poured some more alcohol, put a blade into the fire until it was white, warned Bane, placed the blade on the open carotid, bore the heartrending howls, twisted a needle into a hook, started to stitch a wound once, twice — and all the others.

It took her some time, but at the day's twilight, she had finished it, her back sweaty and sore; but her patient seemed better looking, despite still pale and unconscious. Talia rushed to her side, her face filled of emotions for her _dear_ friend, and put a big leather mask on Bane's face.

"What's that?"

"A mask. To contain the pain."

Alana was skeptical, but before she could ask anything more, one of the men cut in:

"Is he out of danger?"

Alana considered his face closely. It was emaciated by time, she could tell, yet she could not give him an age; he seemed neither young nor old, despite his slightly grey hair. He had intelligent and calculative green eyes, and an athletic body. "Out of danger, yes. But I'd like to know _what_ damaged him that way."

A sparkle gleamed into the man's eyes. "I do not like orders, neither your tone. You should be careful, especially when I'm choosing of your last of the next minute."

"What…" Alana's eyes grew wide and the other man slowly unsheathed a sword of its case.

"Stop." Talia's voice snapped. "Uhu, I don't want to see this sword. Father, Alana saved my life, and now Bane's. We cannot kill her, we _owe _her."

Her father's eyes went dry. "We do not owe _a thing_. I'll spare her life, but you make your goodbyes, because we're leaving." He went out, followed by Uhu, who put away his sword to carelessly carry Bane over his shoulder.

Once they were out, Talia turned to her and sweetly smiled. "One day, Alana, we'll met again, and I'll pay you back for all you've done. I promise."

And just like that, she was gone.

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**Notes:** Trust is my first real fanfiction in English and in _the Dark Knight_ category as well. I find Nolan's films so complete and so inspiring, that I always wanted to add a bit of my ink in it, but never dared. As I am French, I'll ask you to don't mind the mistakes, and make me notice them instead.

This story will be a slow burn and separated in three parts; the first one is very short, because it's only one chapter — this one, actually. The second part will introduce Alana's character at about thirty-one years old, and the third at about thirty-six, and will contain _The Dark Knight Rises_' events in this one. There will also be a romance, but it will be placed later, very later – as I said, a very slow burn —; so basically it is a Barsad/OC story. This story is really serious, so if you're looking for a quick romance or a meaning less sex story, this story isn't for you.

I am really excited about this, but I'm not very patient, so I count on your reviews — if there will be — to encourage me, so I don't give this one up. Thank you for even reading anyway!

**[EDIT: Watch Trust's trailer: /watch?v=XK3ftHXZBto]**

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**Review?**


	2. Origins

**PART 2**

_Paris_

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"_To be trusted is a better compliment than being loved._" George MacDonald

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**Chapter 1**

_Origins._

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It was two in two in the morning, when the darkness almost appropriated the pale moonlight, that the telephone rang. She woke up instantly. She silently got up, all senses in alert, perfectly awake in one instant.

She quietly passed from the bedroom to the living-room and grabbed the receiver.

_Clic._

"Hello?"

A silence. "Alana? Alana Chase?"

"Yes, who is it?"

"Hello; a friend of Talia, Talia al Ghul."

Alana breathed, sixteen years old memories hitting her like a hammer. She slowly sat on the edge of the sofa.

"Hello, are you still here?" the male voice asked, aggressed by the long distance call parasites. Alana noticed the hashed words and the singing accent — _European, maybe ?_

"It has been a long time since I last heard that name." She finally let out.

The man's voice rose again. "Talia would like to settle a meeting. She said it is very important."

"Where?"

"In Paris."

Alana blinked, both surprised and annoyed. "I can't. I— I don't have the money."

"It's okay. The money is no problem — we'll send you plane tickets."

"Okay... When?"

"Anytime you'd like." The voice was now slightly bored.

"Paris it is, then. In two weeks. Send Talia my sympathizes."

_Clic_. Only silence responded to her.

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Two weeks had passed and holidays had come when Alana found herself on a plane. She let her eyes wander on the landscape outside the porthole while her mind travelled back in time.

She thought about Tunisia. She thought about all the knowledge her mother taught her, even on her deathbed, how the name of a special type of fungus died on her lips while her eyes rolled back in her orbits as she expulsed her last breath of life. She thought about how she manage to get a one-way to America ticket when she turned eighteen, how she started from scratches and how _hard_ she worked to earn each penny she was given.

And penny by penny, one day she was able to afford college. It was a solace for her, to finally _do_ something she wanted. And so she went to the cheapest medicine university — which, well, wasn't so cheap. She had to work hard, maybe harder than the other students. She stand out with her excellent grades, slightly older than the other students. She didn't have a lot of friends, she hadn't had much time for them anyway, because when she wasn't at the university, she was working, and when she wasn't, she was studying — she barely even had time to sleep in between.

After a few years, she realized that generalist medicine wasn't meant for her, and she specialized into psychology. It pleased her — with amusement she analyzed that as a relation with her past, when her and her mother took care of strangers, and she had to listen and to advise them. If you'd ask her, she'd say that it was like biking, you never forget.

And now she was practicing, in a firm in Chicago._ Pierce and Smith_. She started as trainee, but quickly she was noticed and passed associate. Her associate — a confident man in his middle thirties — recently promoted her independent associate. Now, her aim was to create her own firm, but let's face it, she wasn't ready yet. After all, it was only less than five years since she got out of university, and even if she knew she had real skills, she wasn't experienced enough.

If she let herself look back, she knew she had made the good choices. She _was_ a good psychologist. She was patient, pleasant and kind; more, she was caring with her patients — she truly worried about them, truly followed them until she knew deep down that they were fully taken care of.

On the other hand, her personal life was a bit of a mess. She didn't have friends — she only had bonded with one of her female colleague, Clara. She couldn't help but behind her sympathetic appearance be suspicious with folks. She had problems trusting people; she thought it was related to the absence of her father, or perhaps the years she spent alone after her mother's passing — she wasn't quite sure, but she didn't want to dig into it either.

She was sometimes a little too much independent; she only had around fifteen dates within her whole life, and even less boyfriends. Now she took a look at it, she mused about her current state. What was she doing, without advance or retreat? She was waiting, waiting for something to happen. _But you can't wait forever._

Alana sighed. She pulled a book out of her purse, slid a finger between the page and her bookmark, and begun to read. Alas, it didn't took long before someone interrupted her.

"I'm sorry, are you— are you english?" the woman next to her asked, her voice heavily accented, her hand vaguely pointing towards the book.

Alana gave her a quick look before quickly finishing her sentence; then she rose the head and answered: "Yes, I am." She took full notes of the woman's appearance, her tired face without any trace of make-up, her slightly sweaty hair quickly put into a loose bun, her basic clothes and her easy sweet smile — _housewife, obviously_.

"It's nice, so you're travelling?"

"Yes, I am." Alana smiled back. "It's a holiday trip. You're French, right?"

"_Oui._" She laughed.

Alana's smiled widened. "Well, can you tell me about Paris? How is it?"

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When her plane landed, Alana took no time to rest. After she passed the customs, she quickly turned on her phone and composed the number that was send with the tickets. She was a little nervous, would it be Talia picking up the phone?

"Hello?"

_No, it wasn't._

"Uh... it— it's Alana speaking. (_No response._) I've— I've landed."

"Wait a minute please." There was a silence, almost _too_ silent, and when Alana started to worry about how much would the communication would cost, a new voice picked up the phone.

"Miss Chase?" The male voice was more pleasant and professionnal — although very unusual, mechanical; but Alana quickly put it on the bad transmission, and answered positively. "It is a pleasure to finally hear of your voice. I hope you had a very good flight... Where are you right now?"

"I'm still at the airport. Shall I call a cab?"

"Please do. I am going to give you the adress of a local café, and Talia will meet you there. All right?"

_I don't have the choice, do I? _"All right."_  
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It was Talia, but it didn't look like her.

She was a brunette, with nice middle-length curly hair, a raffined face and a discreet make-up. She wore a long black dress, fitting the last wings of summer, and an obviously designed jacket over it. She was beautiful. She wasn't Talia.

Not the one she knew at least.

A smile bursted out as _Talia_ saw her, sat on the _terrasse_. She directly walked to Alana, each of her steps emanating a scent of sophistication, of sensuality that Alana couldn't even dream of copying. This one slowly got up, in all of her atonishment. Talia didn't bothered with the shaky hand Alana rose and pulled her into an embrace.

"Alana." Her voice was smooth, delicate, matching all of her appearance. Also, long gone the harshed words of the child that knocked on the door sixteen years ago, a fluid French accent replaced it. She finally broke the embrace and hold her at distance with her hands still on her shoulders while she scanned Alana's entire body with a natural smile on her lips. "You've changed."

"So have you." Alana's voice surprisingly felt to her like it was crude and graceless. She was suddendly fully aware of the too much casual attire she was wearing, of her hair that she didn't curled well this morning or of her probably disgustingly sweaty face skin.

"It's been _so_ long", the French accent flowed of the adorable strawberry lips.

Alana didn't respond, as she still gazed on Talia's face, completly stunned. A waiter choose this moment to walk in.

"_Mesdemoiselles, vous désirez?_"

"_Hum... Un café, s'il vous plait_" Talia responded in a perfectly unaccentued French. She looked back to Alana expectently.

"Uh— a tea. Please."

"_Un thé_", Talia quickly translated, as to not draw attention. _Failed_. The waiter discreetly left the terrace.

"So, Alana. It's been a while, tell me what you did all those years."

Both of them sat on chairs, and Alana took the opportunity to tear her eyes off her _friend _and to let them wander on the beautiful landscape — they were situated in the district Montmartre, which was truly a piece of art, with artists at every corner of every street. Alana liked the cool ambiance of the place. She took that time to put words on her thoughs, and finally her mouth talked fo her, telling Talia the whole story of her life, only to be interrumpted by the waiter, coming with their drinks. When she finished, the sun started to set well, and the sunbeams who were one moment ago warming their faces disapeared.

"_Wahou_. So you have really moved on from Tunisia, and you're... all independent now. Sucessfull and all."

Alana lightly flushed. "Well, it has been sixteen years."

Talia briefly closed her eyes. "Yes, it has."

"What about you?"

"Well, I'm CEO of an international enterprise, my job is to escroc weathly people to make myself weathly." Alana smiled at the small joke. "But hey, I like it. I like my job, yeah..."

"You've grown well, Talia."

She blinked. "Oh, I'm not Talia anymore. I mean, I changed my name." Alana's eyebrows rose from themself. Talia bit her bottom lip. "The name's Miranda now. Miranda Tate."

Alana breathed at the sound of her mother's name, but controlled her expression as Talia examined her closely, as to judge her reaction... _or her_. "It's okay. May I ask why _that_ name?"

She smiled. "I didn't want to give up everything about my past, and... I though that _that_ name would be a reminder. And, of course, it was a sort of thanks."

_She's trying to remind me of that night, how I helped her_, Alana analyzed. _But... why? She— she wants something again?_

"See, Alana, if I asked you to come here, it's not only because I wanted to catch up time with you. I mean it was _one_ of the reasons. (_A pause._) Alana, that night, I said I'd pay you back one day. Truth is, today, I need your help once again."

Alana frozed, and here eyes were pitched into Talia's serious blues in an instant. "What do you need?"

Talia fexibly got up. "It'd be better if I show you. Coming?"

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**Notes:** Oh God, my neck _hurts_. I've been on it all day long, from morning to night — and morning again, since it's now past midnight. But well, I really hope that you enjoyed this chapter, I was really into it, I've almost written every scene of it like three times each, because I wanted it to be perfect. But now, I find it kind of crappy. Please tell me what you think — and if it trully is bad, I'll start again, just _please_ tell me. Oh God, it's so late I'm rambling now. I should go to bed, right?

I have been influenced a lot by music for this chapter, strongly by Brandon and Leah's "Vaseline", The XX's "Intro", Eels' "Fresh Blood" and Beck's "Bad Blood" — if you can, listen to those songs, they're different but they truly are amazing. I've also been influenced by my beautiful country, France, as you'd guess. I just wanted to place Talia's French accent's origins in it, and, well, you can say I had fun writing about a place I knew for once. More real, right?

Thinking of, please let me know if you have ideas or so. I noticed that nobody dares to give some ideas, but I'd be _so_ happy if you did, because I think that this story would be so much better with your contribution... Oh, and I need your help with the summary/catch sentence; with what you saw so far, give me ideas, create one, anything if you're inspired. I'm so tired I'm like high, I'm saying whatsoever. But it's funny, so, please, review, I'll post a new chapter with crazy notes and— oh right, that's not why you're here for.

By the way, as I am a sedulous fanfiction reader, I noticed that in almost every author's note of every chapter of every story I read, that the author is excusing his/her retard by a writer's block. I thought about that, and I have an advice for all of those authors in a writer's block problem. I have a solution— _read_. I know, it sounds odd, but it _is_ the solution. When you read, you have the right words in your mind, and you find yourself inspired and wanting to write things out. So, yeah. Read — books, not fanfictions. It doesn't work with those.

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**Welcome and thank you to SOSlove, SandmanSlim, TARDIS-follower, stellarallie, Harry Abbot, JRennerFan, JohnnyStormsGirl and Live-Laugh-Play for giving this story a chance.**

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**Guest reviewer's answers.**

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_Guest:_ Even if it's a one word review, I'm glad you liked it!

_lola:_ Thank you for the review! Alana's character is futher developped into this chapter, but there's still some deep, but I hope I answered to your question with this chapter. And to the romance between Bana and Talia, I can't say yet. I guess it'll depend on the readers' enthousiasm... Anyway, thank again, keep it up!

_BeautifulAngel:_ Your English is quite well, don't worry! What nationality do you have? What do you mean by concept, is it bad or good? Thank you for leaving a review, I was inspired by yours very much. Hope the chapter is at your licking!

_Laila:_ Hooopppeeee yyoouuu'rrreeee ggglllaaadddd! But I'm a girl, so, no "bro"; thank you for reviewing, you made me laugh... alone, yeah. But still! Keep it up!

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**Review?**


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